A Thousand Days
by xahra99
Summary: Post-game. The Order is in disarray following Al Mualim's death. Saladin has retreated to Jerusalem as the Crusaders sweep across the Holy Land. As the Order's foothold in the city grows more precarious by the day, Malik al-Sayf, rafiq of Jerusalem, receives an unwelcome message from the Assassins of Alamut. In progress.


A Thousand Days

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

'One day in Jerusalem is like a thousand days, one month like a thousand months and one year like a thousand years."

Kaab al-Ahbra, _Fadail_

"Jerusalem is ours as much as yours."

Saladin, in a letter to Richard the Lionheart.

Chapter One:

_Jerusalem, 12__th__ December 1191._

_Malik._

"Make way for our Lord and Sultan! The Victorious King, the Righteousness of Faith; Deliverer of Jerusalem, Servant of the Two Holy Shrines; Abu 'l-Muzaffar Yusuf ibn Ayyub ibn Shahdi. Make way for Saladin!"

The crowd gathered in the square pressed backwards. Tailors pushed against merchants, who jostled with imams, who shuffled backwards and stepped upon the toes of shoemakers. Men scrambled onto the crumbling statuary that bordered the square. Parents lifted children onto their shoulders and small boys clambered into the lower branches of the trees. At last the crowd parted like Musa's sea and a broad avenue of dusty flagstones stretched between the entrance to the Temple Mount and the open doors of the _Qubbat as-Sakhra,_ the Dome of the Rock. Servants hurried to lay down Persian carpets across the stones.

Malik al-Sayf pulled his hood across his face and pushed forward through the crowd. People moved aside to let him pass, their noses wrinkling at the eye-watering stench of sweat and hashish that rose from Malik's robe. Malik did not blame them. The robe had smelt remarkably when he'd purchased the garment from a beggar at noon and he doubted that the stink had improved in the past few hours. Altaïr would have scorned such camouflage, but Malik had learned that few people looked closely at a man who smelt so bad.

He stopped a few paces from the front of the crowd, before the House of the Chain. The shrine's burnished dome shone like a steel mirror, reflecting white sky and the minarets of the al-Aqsa mosque. The wind was cold. Malik's left arm ached savagely. He rubbed at his stump and scanned the crowd like a hawk searching for mice in long grass.

They were a motley bunch. Women in muddy robes sold dates to scarred soldiers in fish-scale armor. Sufis huddled in their woollen robes next to green-turbaned imams. Children played games of tag between the legs of thir parents. Malik saw faces from across the Arab world. There were Syrians, Maghrebis, Egyptians, green-eyed Persians and black-skinned soldiers from Yemen, indistinguishable in their sheet variety.

Malik unfocused his eyes and called upon the Eagle's vision. The sight made it far easier to pick out faces from a crowd. The citizens that surrounded Malik were leaden grey; neutral or oblivious to the Assassins' cause. Here and there Malik saw the spots of cobalt blue that marked people more sympathetic to the Creed. The Sultan's guards shone like rubies, bt there was nothing unsual in that. Malik maintained the sight for a moment before he blinked and shifted his vision to a more ordinary spectrum. The crowd around him began to gossip.

"God willing" the man on Malik's left said, "the Sultan has twenty thousand men. He'll drive the Franks into the sea."

The man's neighbour, a weaver from his calloused hands, snorted. "You're a fool! Saladin's soldiers will fight only as long as his emirs can keep them in the field."

"These Franks are crazy! Who campaigns in winter?"

"The Franks live in a land of endless snow," the weaver said knowledgeably. "That's why their skin's so pale."

A thin rain began to fall. The crowd huddled together, raising shawls above their head to block the downpour. Rivulets sluiced down the golden dome and washed the dust from the glazed tiles of the House of the Chain as the carpets laid down for Saladin's arrival darkened to blood-red. Dye seeped into the puddles as the rain intensified. The crowd scattered.

Malik looked around for shelter. A few nobles' litters jostled for position among the crowd. He made his way over the the closest palanquin, an elegant affair draped with silken curtains. A knot of beggars gathered beneath the spreading canopy, their hands outstretched for alms. Malik lingered on the edges of the crowd. His ragged robe blended well with the beggars' rags and the litter's painted curtains sheltered him from the rain. He did not join the men jostling for coins by the side of the palanquin. The Assassins funded their bureaus well, and Malik had no need of money.

He watched as a slender, henna-stained hand emerged from the litter and tossed a handful of copper dirhams into the crowd. The beggars scrambled for the coins. The curtains swung back into place for a moment before layers of figured silk parted and the occupant of the palanquin tossed a coin straight to Malik.

Malik resisted the tempation to snatch the coin from the air. Instead he caught the dirham on his shoulder and palmed the coin as it dropped down into his hand. He expected to feel cold metal in his palm. Instead, paper crackled between his fingers.

The lady seated in the litter tilted her head and Malik heard the sound of earring bells. He recognised the sound. Had no need of Eagle's sight to know her for an ally.

Her name was Nusaybah, and she was many things. Intelligent was one of them. Married was another.

Malik tilted his head. Water dripped from his hood. He slipped the coin into his sleeve, unrolled the note and glanced down at the elegant script.

_There are Assassins in the city_, he read. _Are they your men?_

Malik's eyes narrowed. He shook his head slightly, a small gesture that could have been nothing more than a movement to shake water from his hair. The earrings chimed again.

Malik was _rafiq_ of Jerusalem, and the only Assassin to his knowledge within the city walls. Half the Order had died to bring Al Mualim down. Once there had been a thousand villagers in Masyaf and half that many fighting men. Now the castle could field only fifty _fidai'in, _four _rafiqs _and twice that many _dais._ If there were Assassins in the city, Malik knew they were not Masyaf men.

Far above the dome, a hawk screamed as the rain turned to torrents. Malik turned away. A beggar bumped against him, scrambling for coins. Malik let the man push past. He heard the people mutter with anticipation as a horse appeared beneath the archway and Yusuf ibn Ayyub, Salah al-din, saviour of Jerusalem, hammer of the Frankish knights and the man who'd had the good fortune to be the right place at the right time when the Crusades forced the Muslim world to unite, rode onto the Temple Mount.

The crowd cheered as the Sultan of all Islam rode his horse slowly up the avenue. The wind howled like a mad muezzin around the minarets and whipped the tail of Saladin's horse into silken froth. The falcon pennants of Saladin's entourage snapped against their staffs. Malik caught at his hood to keep his face concealed. The movement shifted the hilt of his knife against his ribs as he regarded the sultan.

Saladin was was slightly built and dark. His expression was the small, private smile of a man who did not believe his own myth. He wore a sword belted over his rich robes and a steel cap gleamed half-hidden beneath his turban's brocade folds. The saddlecloth of his white charger was thick with green-and-gold embroidery. The rich regalia and the turquoise and azure mosaic of the dome behind him transformed Saladin into a figure from a tale, though Malik didn't need the backdrop to remind him that, like Malik himself. Saladin was more than he seemed.

Malik turned his back on the litter and pushed through the crowd, towards the arched colonnade of the al-Aqsa mosque. There was no point climbing. Saladin had encountered Assassins before, and if the Sultan himself wasn't watching the rooftops then his guards certainly were. A row of saffron-clad bodyguards divided the sultan from his subjects. There were more soldiers stationed on the roofs surrounding the square, but Malik could think of a dozen ways to evade them. He noticed that the guards wore fine lamellar armor and carried scimitars. The wall of steel they created was impressive, but it was a wall and could be crossed. There were no guards between the sultan and the mosque.

Malik watched as Saladin dismounted and handed his warhorse to a page. The Sultan's harness clanked as his boots landed on the pavement. His armor was gilded and studded with jewels but functional despite the decoration. Fine mail mesh hung from the rim of his steel helmet and brushed his shoulders. Lamellar mail wrapped his torso. Heavy gloves covered his hands and leather boots with gilded spurs encased his feet. A fine sword hung from his belt and his stance indicated that he knew how to use the weapon. Malik had no doubt that Saladin would defend himself if needed. The sultan was no divan commander, but a battle-hardened knight.

Saladin nodded to the crowd. Then he turned his back, stepped towards the mosque and prostrated himself before the Dome of the Rock. The crowd gasped at the sight of Islam's sultan in homage before one of Islam's holiest places. Malik saw a chink in Saladin's armor as the sultan touched his forehead to the pavement. A seam of dark cloth two-fingers' widths between the body and the sleeves of Saladin's mail shirt gaped as under the sultan's arm. A well-timed thrust would find the sultan's heart.

Malik drew his knife.

He was close enough to smell the sweat of Saladin's steed above his own rank stench; close enough to hear the prayer the sultan whispered under his breath. He could push through the crowd in seconds; cross the flagstones in a heartbeat. Saladin's guards would never reach their master in time to save his life. The sultan's prayers would speed his soul to heaven.

Malik made his move before the sultan's retinue had time to recognise the threat. He passed beneath the shadows of the colonnade, behind the guards. The assassin he had glimpsed shone like a lantern in the gloom beneath the pillars, but Malik's bare feet were soundless against the flagstones and the man did not look round.

Malik did not strike until the last second.

"Go no further," he said quietly as he laid the blade of his knife against the man's throat. "Saladin is under the protection of the Assassins."

The man's entire body stiffened. "We _are_ the Assassins," he hissed.

"I am the _rafiq_ of Jerusalem," Malik snapped, "and you are not welcome here."

"You fool!" The assassin's voice was heavily accented. "We're from Alamut!"

"What rank?"

"_Dai._"

"Need I remind you that you are in my city, and I outrank you? Drop your weapon now. I may not cut your throat."

"You would not-"

"Keep your knife," Malik said, "and find out."

Steel clattered on the flagstones. Malik kicked the knife into the shadows before he withdrew his own blade. "Turn around so we call speak like sensible men," he told the man.

The Alamut assassin turned around carefully, arms spread wide to show he held no weapon. His eyes flicked with quick judgement to Malik's missing arm. Malik had seen the same reaction many times before. That did not mean he liked it.

"Swear that you will stay your blade until I give you leave to use it," he said.

The Assassin rubbed his throat. A spot of blood stained the wide embroidered sleeve of his merchant's robe. "Your knife is not at my throat now," he said.

"While you are in my city," said Malik, "you will abide by my rules. Or have the Assassins of Alamut forgotten the Creed as well as their manners?"

The other Assassin glanced back to the square. Saladin finished his prayer in light as weak as watered wine and rose to his feet. The sultan's sleeve fell back into place against his body as he stood and the plates of his shirt fell back into place with a whisper. The Assassin sighed, a sigh of regret at a missed opportunity.

"As you wish," he said.

"Tell me your name," Malik said.

"Harun."

"My name is Malik al-Sayf. I run the Assassin's Bureau in Jerusalem. Visit there. Look for the Assassin sigil on Pearl Street, that people call the Street of Booksellers. Now go, before we draw too much attention and you break the Creed once more."

The Assasssin glanced again into the square, then back to Malik. He turned away without collecting his knife and slipped into the courtyard. Seconds later he was lost into the crowd. Malik leaned against the wall and let the colonnade cloak him in its shadows. He watched as Saladin raised an iron glove.

"We have been fortunate," said the sultan over the heads of the hushed crowd. "Four years ago God enabled us to retake Jerusalem, a city lost to us for ninety-one long years. For four years we have pleased God with our worship. We must not allow the Franks to root themselves so strongly once again. We must defend Jerusalem's walls with as much zeal as we once claimed them. God has appointed the house of the sons of Ayyub to this task. We must pray that we are worthy of this honor."

His final words were nearly lost in the wave of applause and ululation that followed. Saladin regarded the crowd for a moment before he inclined his head and entered the Dome of the Rock. His silhouette in the doorway was as small as any man's.

The crowd cheered, and clapped louder. Malik stayed silent, and doubted. The Frankish army still hoped to take Jerusalem. In Malik's professional opinion, Saladin's arrival meant that the city would be under siege before the year was out.

He watched as the sultan went from the Dome of the Rock to the House of the Chain, and then to the al-Aqsa mosque for afternoon prayers. The sultan's bodyguard followed, enclosing him neatly as a olive round its stone. Malik saw no more strange Assassins, but he watched anyway.

_If Saladin dies today,_ he thought, _nobody can say the Assassins killed him_.

The sun sank towards the horizonand one last blade of sunlight turned the city's walls to gold. The crowd thinned out, leaving a tide of debris; scraps of cloth, almond shells, a broken sandal. Malik slipped away as the sky darkened into iron, trusting Saladin's guards to protect the sultan.

There were thirty thousand people in Jerusalem. The streets were rarely silent, and never empty. But weeks of rain had driven everyone indoors, and the dust that piled in alleys in the summer had melted to fine mud that choked the streets.

Malik knew the city's streets as well as he knew his own knives. He headed south towards the Bureau, passing townhouses, caravanserai and shops, all shuttered tight against the rain. Water dripped from the rusted links of a chain that dangled beside a bolted door, a legacy of the Frankish years where knights would ride their horses right into the taverns. A bathhouse window spilled a cloud of scented steam into the street. Next door, candles glowed in the narrow arches of a Christian chapel.

The sunlight faded to a red thread on the horizon as the evening prayer echoed from the rooftops. The Christian candle-flames flickered as the muezzin's call rose into the sky, and for a moment Malik glimpsed the celestial Jerusalem hidden in plain sight of all the faithful. He felt often that there were two Jerusalems-the real city, whose streets he walked every day, and the holy,to which the atheist Assassins were eternally blind.

He shook rain from his hair as he left the rich quarter behind and circled round through the alleys. This district was poor, and the streets were as narrow as a canyon. The houses huddled together as their walls melted in the rain, water pouring from every spout and drain. Every wall was a waterfall; every street, a river. Malik ducked beneath the torrents even though he was already soaked to the skin.

Malik gave Nusaybah's copper dirhams to a beggar woman who sheltered beneath an awning at the next crossroads and splashed through the alleys until he reached the bookseller's street. He unlocked the door to the Bureau with the key he wore looped around his wrist.

The room was cold. The coals in the brazier had burned to white ash. Malik heaped charcoal into the bowl and struck a spark with flint and steel. Once the coal was smouldering he added a handful of sweet-smelling aloe wood to the blaze. Then he ducked under the curtain and went outside into the courtyard. The tiled floor of the court was awash and the pigeons huddled miserably in the shelter of the wooden ceiling lattice. Malik rinsed the charcoal from his hands with water as icy as the snows. He tossed a handful of grain to the pigeons before he returned to the warmth of the brazier and stood beside the coals until his robe began to steam.

Once the air had heated a fraction above freezing he shed his robe and climbed to the loft to fetch a clean garment. He had just pulled the robe over his head when he heard the door open. The small room was filled with the sound of earring bells.

"I did not think I'd find you here," he said.

"I did not think that I could come." Nusaybah smiled. "All this would be far easier if I were born a common woman."

"Have you much time?"

"A hour. Maybe two." She slipped her shawl from her head and wrung it out over the floor."Did you find your Assassins?"

They weren't my Assassins. I found them anyway."

"Should I be concerned?"

Malik shrugged. He produced a metal grille and teapot from a chest and climbed down the ladder with difficulty. "I'm not sure," he said as he set the grille over the flames, poured water into the pot and added a pinch of tea leaves before setting the pot on to boil. "Have you news?"

"A little," said Nusaybah. She dealt in weaponry and knew the trade of war as well as Malik did himself. "Saladin's razed four cities and brought their granaries here. My maid saw the carts with her own eyes. He's scorched the earth and poisoned wells. His soldiers speak of strengthening Jerusalem's walls. They've brought fifty stonemasons and two thousand Frankish prisoners to fortify the city. The Sultan's sworn he and his sons will work themselves-and he's not known for breaking promises."

"He's planning a siege."

She nodded. The smell of steeping tea filled the air. "It's likely."

"Jerusalem's no fortress. You'd need thousands of men to defend these walls."

She tossed her head and her hair scattered amber in the lamplight. "There must be twenty thousand men in Jerusalem."

"Twenty thousand civilians." Malik corrected. "Even Saladin can't turn civilians into guardsmen. Most of his emirs have disbanded their soldiers. Saladin knows the Franks as well as any man but nobody thought they'd campaign through winter. And his soldiers are tired."

"So if Richard besieges Jerusalem-"

"He might win." said Malik. "But it will be hard to hold."

Nusaybah's lips tightened."That won't matter to the people. You'll have heard what happened the last time Franks won Jerusalem. Their knights rode through the Temple Mount in blood up to their knees. Can't your Order assassinate their leaders?"

"We could try," said Malik, though his heart sank at the thought. "But assassination doesn't work as well for Franks. They have a hierarchy. Kill one and another takes his place. You have to kill a great number to make any difference at all."

"Your friend Altaïr killed nine men in one month."

"He is not my friend," Malik said automatically. "Besides, he is the Master now. He has other tasks."

Nusaybah fell silent for a moment. She raised a hand to touch her earrings and twined a lock of hair absently around her finger. Her other hand stole over to touch Malik's knee. "Could you?"

"Kill Richard?"

She nodded.

Malik had to admit he'd wondered that himself. "Perhaps," he said, "though as I said, there'd be little point. The Crusaders are still miles from the walls,and they've little sympathy for Saracens of any creed. I doubt I'd get close enough to strike. But if it comes to that, I'll help you leave the city."

"This is my city, Malik." Nusaybah said. "I'll not leave." Her eyes were dark as olives in the lamplight as she leaned over to inhale the fragrant smoke of aloe wood and tea. "Let us enjoy it while we can. I have one more thing to tell you before we can dispense with business entirely."

"Speak, then."

"Saladin wants to buy my weapons. And I'll oblige him-for a price. I have a meeting with his secretary Imal al-din tommorrow. I'll see what I can find about his plans."

Malik frowned. "I cannot ask you to take such risks."

She dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand. "There's little risk involved."

"There will be if Saladin discovers where the Order found that information. We've given him little reason to love the Assassins."

"You risk yourself every day,"she pointed out.

Malik didn't often have to point out the obvious to Nusaybah, so her comment caught him a little by surprise. "That's what I do," he said,

"And selling weapons is what I do! Jerusalem is my city, not yours. There's nothing happens here of which I have not had my share. At times I've been penniless, at times I've danced for coins." She met his eyes. "And done more, too."

"I did not mean-"

She did not let him finish. "I've worn silk robes with sultans and striped canvas for the shepherds who herd their flocks among the hills. My caravans have been waylaid. I've been in danger of my life more than once. I've seen the Christians kneel before their sepulchre and heard the Jews whispering prayers by their wall. I've gone to mosque and worshipped fire. I was born outside the walls in sackcloth, but I promised myself I'd die in silk."

She paused to take a breath, eyes flashing. Outrage crackled from her shawl like sparks from a cat's fur. Malik meant to use the pause to insist she should not place herself in danger, but instead he heard himself saying "As you wish."

"Men have planned my death before! I'm no innocent."

Malik did not doubt it. "I'm agreeing with you." he said. "If you wish to risk your life, then I of all people cannot stand against you. But you must go prepared. Be very careful. It's possible you have overlooked something. The sultan's men may know more than you think."

She hesitated. "Do you think they do?"

"Not necessarily. But-" Malik paused. The sound of the rain outside was louder than the Orontes in flood. Among the drops Malik heard the sound of a sandal sole on tiles, and then another. The steps were far too cautious to be guards. They crept stealthily towards the door of the Bureau.

He held a hand to his mouth. Nusaybah pressed her lips together and jumped as a heavy knock ratttled the hinges.

Malik was on his feet in an instant, reaching for the long knife tucked in his sash. Nusaybah's hand darted towards the kettle in a manner that suggested she was considering the vessel's suitability as a projectile. She snatched up her shawl and wrapped the fabric round her head, tucking errant strands of hair beneath the fabric as deftly as if she sheathed daggers. They exchanged glances.

"Enter," Malik called.

The door swung open slowly. Three Assassins stood in the archway, cowled and cloaked in white. They wore their scarlet sashes wrapped around their heads like veils. As the visitors drew back their cowls Malik recognized the Assassin he had seen on the Temple Mount and let his hand slip from his knife.

"Safety and peace," he said politely. "The Jerusalem Bureau welcomes brothers from Alamut."

"Safety and peace," replied the Assassin Malik had met in the square. His voice was cautious, muffled by the layers of cloth wrapped around his face.

Malik sighed. "This city is neither," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of rain on the roof. "Come inside, quickly, before someone sees you."

The Assasssins entered without hesitation. A gust of wind from the street followed them in. The oil lamp flickered in the breeze and the brazier guttered out. The visitors stood awkwardly in the centre of the small room and looked sidelong at Nusaybah as they unwrapped their veils.

"Please, sit,"said Malik, more sharply than he had intended. "I am Malik, an Assassin of Masyaf. My Bureau is yours for as long as you are in the city."

Their leader inclined his head. "I am Harun, _dai _of Alamut." he said, as easily as if Malik had not greeted him with a knife to his throat. He gestured to the other two Assassins, sombre, falcon-faced men, alike as brothers, who had settled down against the wall as far as possible from Nusaybah. "These are my brothers Ali and Ismail, _fidai'in_ of Alamut."

Malik shot Nusaybah a glance, but she was already moving.

"Safety and peace, brothers," she said, rising from the floor with a graceful sway that set her earrings chiming and gained a disapproving glance from at least one Assassin. "I regret I have no spare time to spend with you."

"It's too dangerous for you to walk these streets alone," Malik objected.

"My retainers are waiting."

"Are they far?"

She smiled. "Not far. And I'll return." She pulled the corner of her shawl down to show a star-bright smile."Once you have bathed."

Malik smiled despite himself. "Safety and peace," he called after her, and heard her answering farewell.

Once he had made certain she had left safely he closed the door and turned to the Assassins. Smoke curled up to the rafters from the dying brazier like the prayers of the faithful. Malik threw rugs down upon the Bureau's floor. He fetched bread and olives and poured tea for each guest, draining his own glass without caring much for the taste. The liquid was both weak and bitter.

Malik set his cup down on the tiles. "Brothers," he said, choosing his words as carefully as any blade. "Perhaps you would explain to me exactly why you're here."

The Assassins exchanged glances. "We bring a message," one said, "From Alamut, and our master Nur al-din."

"We have pigeons for messages," Malik observed.

"The birds we sent did not return."

"Unfortunate," said Malik. He was well aware that Alamut had sent message birds, and equally certain that Altair had ignored them. Alamut was many leagues distant from Masyaf, and Altair had more immediate problems.

"Indeed," Harun said. "We've heard of trouble at Masyaf."

"We hope for better days," Malik admitted. He doubted they would come. Peace seemed to have abandoned the Holy Land entirely. "But we were speaking of your mission?"

The Persian Assassin nodded and leant forwards across the mats. "The Master of Alamut has heard Sinan is dead."

Malik nodded. "That's no secret." The Old Man had been dead for months, but Alamut was far distant and news traveled slowly.

"It seems not. The Master has sent us to discover how he died."

"Ah." Malik said.

"There are rumors he was murdered." Harun pressed.

Malik had intended to stay silent on the matter, but such tales were too dangerous to let lie. "That's not true."

"Then what happened?"

The other Assassins sat very still. They had unbuckled their swords to sit comfortably, but the hilts of the blades lay only inches from their hands.

Malik made a show of reluctance. Let them think he was incompetent. It was better by far than announcing the truth. "I'm not completely sure. You must forgive me. Al Mualim named me _rafiq_ only a few months before he died." The oil had burned low in the lamp, so he rose to replenish it, putting the brazier between himself and the foreign Assassins. "More tea?'

"Some water," Harun said. "A man might speak more easily with a wet throat."

Malik nodded. Water was the one thing of which Jerusalem had plenty. He fetched a pitcher and some glasses from the other room and sat down again. He'd hoped to deflect their questions as he would a knife, but it was obvious that wasn't going to work.

"These rumors," Harun asked. "What did they say?"

"There are always rumors. We can never know anything, only suspect.'

"Then, brother, what do you suspect?"

Malik sighed. "The Old Man went mad," he said. It was a convenient explanation-the mad were holy, but for a man of such stature and learning to go insane was always shameful. Still, it was as true as anything was in those dark times. Who was to say the Old Man hadn't gone mad, before he died?

"Mad?"

"Yes," Malik said. "He was very old, and he seldom left Masyaf. Spent all his time with his books. It's really no surprise."

One of the Persians said something to the other. Harun snapped something that Malik could not follow, and they subsided. He wondered if they suspected the lie, but he knew that it did not matter. He was their superior in rank; they'd have to take his word for it.

"So Masyaf has no leader?" said Harun.

"Al Mualim named no successor. But Masyaf has a leader."

"One not sanctioned by the Order." Harun said disapprovingly. It was clear that he did not think much of the Masyaf sect's standards. Malik did not blame him. If he had entered a strange city to find a Bureau with no Assassins run by a one-armed _rafiq _who stank like a sewer and entertained strange women, he'd have been sarcastic at best.

"Altair was Al Mualim's best student," he said. "If you wish to speak with him you'll have to travel to Masyaf." He recalled what he knew of the roads between Syria and Persia."In fact, I am surprised you did not call there first." _I wish you had. It would have served Altair right._

"The roads to Jerusalem are safer." one of the other Assassins said. Malik thought it was Ali, but it could have been Ismail. He nodded as if he agreed, though he knew that the Alamut Assassins' arrival had likely very little to do with the condition of the roads. Nobody would walk into an Assassin fortress without first knowing where its master's loyalties lay.

"I can provide you maps," he said. "Masyaf's not far from here. I'll send word. Three days should give me time for a reply."

"Then we'll wait until then," Harun agreed.

"You are welcome to rest here."

"We thank you for your offer," Harun said politely, "but there is so little room."

There was enough room, but Malik suspected that the Alamut Assassins did not wish to share the Bureau with him any more than he wanted to share it with them. "You'll find men sympathetic to our cause in the poor quarter. But take care. The Sultan is well guarded, and his guards are very watchful."

"We'll have no trouble," Harun said dismissively. "Are we done here?"

_Let's hope so, _Malik thought. "Not quite. One more thing, before you leave."

"Of course."

"Why were you in the square this afternoon?"

"We've heard so much of Saladin. I was curious, nothing more. I did not expect to find an Assassin defending him."He shrugged, a graceful gesture that hid a question like a knife."Why is that?"

"The Assassins do not wish to find these lands beneath Crusader rule," said Malik. "Jerusalem is still at war and Saladin's the thread that weaves the Muslim states together. He's a good ruler. We've given him little cause to love the Assassins. Once the Franks are gone he must have no reason to attack us."

"He's a threat."

"A lesser one than Richard and his men."

"Mmm. I applaud your caution. One step at a time, then."

"Saladin is not a target," Malik said firmly. "He'll stay that way for as long as I am _rafiq _of Jerusalem."

"As long as you are _rafiq_." Harun agreed. "We will wait for word from Masyaf, then. Will I find you here in the Bureau?"

Malik had no intention of being cooped up within four walls for more than a few days at a time,despite the rain. The Old Man had left his study only once in twenty years, and that was to climb up to the roof. Malik did not see why he had to do the same."Perhaps," he said. "I find myself spread thin these days. I won't be far away."

"Then we will meet later, brother. Thank you for your hospitality."

"It is my pleasure," Malik said. He rose and showed the Assasins to the door. The rain outside had turned to sleet. Wind whistled down the streets as if it was a mountain valley. The gale tugged at awnings, slammed shutters, and snatched the Assassin's hoods from their heads as they strode outside.

Malik watched the Persians go and thought of Masyaf. It was a long way to the castle, and by now the snow would be as deep as a man in the passes. He hoped the Alamut Assassins would be able to reach the castle. The thought of watching over them the whole winter made his head ache.

Malik's hand crept to his stump. _I need a bath_, he thought. _And I must visit the physician. But first... _

He went into the Bureau and found a block of ink. Warming the ink and some water over the brazier, he rolled out a scrap of paper and began to write.

_Altair, _he began.

_The Crusaders approach Jerusalem's walls. Saladin prepares the city for a siege. The Sultan's guards are everywhere. Their blades are sharp, but at least I know of their intentions. Still, they make my task no easier. But Saladin is safe-for now._

_I have received three messengers from Alamut, sent to investigate the cause of Al Mualim's death. I lied to them, told them the Old Man was mad, but their purpose troubles me. I have kept them in the city for now, but I fear they will not wait for long. I found one of their emissaries in the square, approaching Saladin as he knelt to pray. The man protests he meant no harm, but I find it far too great a coincidence that he drew close at the very moment I would have chosen to strike. _

_You tasked me with doing what needs to be done, in order to set things aright. _

_But how am I to do that, with what we can spare, I have no idea. _


End file.
